I have less than two hours to ’round up some awe-inspiring creativity to finish my work project today so it can be ready for use tomorrow.
I’m here to tell you that, at the moment, it’s not looking good.
Right now all I’ve got to work with is a New York Times spelling bee that I cannot solve, and a lackluster cup of coffee.
And it’s not helping my cause that one side of my brain is trying to convince the other side of my brain that we didn’t wake well this morning, and a nap right about now would be an acceptable Mulligan at any sponsored event.
I’m slightly inclined to agree.
This is the downside to a career where you work alone but not for yourself.
Oh sure, you can manage expectations ’til you’re blue in the face, but the work only gets done when only you get it done. As my parents’ used to say about stuff left on the floor: They’re not going to pick themselves up by themselves.
And “getting it done” means from the concept to design to development to execution. You have to simultaneously be cheerleader, quarterback and coach – with a whole lot of talking to oneself in between.
It’s okay, I multi-task well.
That be said …
I’m a wee bit of a diva when it comes to the actual “pen-to-paper” process of my job.
A long ago failed painter, I traded in my brushes for a keyboard, mouse and databases. But in my heart I still don a beret, sip cheap wine, and question the meaning of life and truth with every key stroke.
Sometimes I’m philosophical. Sometimes I’m charming. Sometimes I’m downright socially awkward.
But always always, I’m covered in code and angry with God.
And I’m gutted when inevitably my Muse fails to show.
Then somewhere towards the end of the middle of my struggle, my inner Michelangelo swoops in to rescue me from personal mediocrity and potentially professional failure, and I am once again revered by everyone in Rome, especially the Pope.
Sorry, got caught up in metaphors – my apologies for anyone who has never heard of The Agony and The Ecstasy.
It’s a roller coaster, my life as a web designer.
So filled with internal drama and the mythos of a tortured artist, you’d think I was writing an unedited draft of a lucky-to-get-published first novel.
And so polar opposite is the above bedlam from the calm collected me that I play on the World Stage, that writing this out finds me smiling at my tender Divine Self (a healthy sign if ever I saw one).
Because, as theatrical as this post may read …